Unhappy Birthday
by eruthiel
Summary: Oneshot for Maggoty Anne. It's Sam Vimes' f-something birthday, and everyone seems determined to remind him of it. Will he last the day? And just how old IS the Commander? It doesn't actually say how old he is, I just said that for effect. XP


**Happy birthday, Maggoty Anne. :) Unhappy Birthday, Commander! Just a little gift oneshot based on an idea I had a little while ago.**

**Disclaimer: If I'd invented them, you'd be reading this on paper in stead of a screen.**

"Bingly-bingly-beep!"

This was the sound that greeted Sam Vimes on the morning of his birthday. It was the sound that greeted him _every_ morning. But, as this was a special occasion, the sound didn't stop there.

"Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday Insert-Name- Ow! Ouch! Argh!"

Stirring, Vimes reached out a hand and picked up the Gooseberry. He smashed it on the wall and let it fall to the ground. "How did you do that?" he mumbled, as the imp picked itself up and inspected the remains of its shattered casing.

"Do what?" the tiny creature squeaked, irritated (1).

"You reacted before I hurt you."

"Force of habit." It began piecing the smashed Gooseberry back together. "Happy birthday, anyway. You know, even I never thought you'd make it to be f-"

"NO!" It came out much louder than he'd intended. Sybil put her head round the bedroom door.

"What is it, Sam?" she asked sharply. She looked as if she'd been awake for hours.

"Nothing, dear," Vimes replied, too fast. Fortunately, he could also move fast. Pulling on his uniform, he hurried downstairs, Sybil trailing behind.

"Imagine!" she declared, when they were both in the kitchen. "It's not everyone in this city who lives to be f-"

"Sybil!" The man cut across her. "It's bad enough as it is!"

Sybil sighed, and spooned some liquidised cabbage into their son's mouth. Young Sam gurgled happily. "Sorry, dear. Have a happy birthday, anyway."

--

Pushing open the door of the Watch house, Vimes tensed himself for the worst.

It came. Largely thanks to Carrot.

"_Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday Mister Vimes Sir, happy birthday to yooouuuuu!"_

The final note was hideously out-of-tune, but then, so were all the other notes, so Vimes barely noticed. He tried to look surprised, or even grateful, while noting that everyone else was embarrassed too.

Except Carrot, of course, who handed him a small parcel with a bow on top.

"You shouldn't have," grunted Vimes, dropping the little package into his pocket.

"Oh sir, it's no trouble!"

"No, I mean you really shouldn't have," the commander tried to explain, but Carrot was too pleased even to notice.

"Congratulations, sir!" he beamed, as all the other Watchpersons (2) cringed and shuffled away. "You know, it's not everybody who lives to be f-"

"Gaaargh!"

_Thud._

"Ow."

As Vimes helped the captain to his feet, he whispered, "Now, Carrot, thank you very much for singing and everything _in front of everyone _but I really must insist on this one."

"Sir?" Carrot, in his concern, barely seemed to notice he had just been knocked off his feet by a flying Sam Vimes.

"Don't – tell – anyone – my – age!" the commander hissed. "It's alright for you, you're twenty-five! Everything's different when you're f- when you're as old as I am."

"Right you are, sir."

But it didn't get better. Oh, no.

--

"Morning, Mister Vimes!" loitered Disturbing Jim (3) from his cell. "A little birdie told me it's your birthday!"

Presumably the 'little birdie' was Carrot, as no-one else on the force bothered to remember Vimes' birthday, and anyway, nobody told Jim anything. It was practically Treason Against the State even to say hello to him. "Piss off, Jim," was what most people actually said and, indeed, what the commander said to him on this very occasion.

Disturbing Jim answered with a cheerful – though decidedly criminal – nod.

"Bingly-bingly-beep!"

Snatching the disorganiser from his pocket, Vimes gave it Angry Stare No. 3: 'this had better be good'. "What!" he yelled.

"1030: meeting with Lord Vetinari," chirruped the imp, somewhat suicidally.

"You're kidding." But the Gooseberry barely had time to reply, because at that point it was thrust back into the terrifying mystery that is Sam Vimes' all-purpose pocket. The man was already running.

Vimes turned up fifteen minutes early. Astonishingly, the Patrician was not stunned by this, but merely said: "What a nice surprise, Commander," in a voice that said he wasn't surprised at all.

"Sir."

"It's not everyone who appreciates the value of promptness."

"Sir."

"In fact, you yourself are not known for your sense of timing."

"Sir."

"I see. Well, it's clear I shall have to buy you a thesaurus next Hogswatch."

Vimes jumped. "What? What are you talking about? I don't want any presents!" he snapped defensively.

Vetinari raised an eyebrow. "If you insist, Commander."

The meeting continued. Vimes mentally kicked himself for being such an idiot and wondered why it hadn't happened yet. You couldn't knock the Patrician to the ground, that was a fact. He'd just have to stand here and take it. He was going to be wished a bloody happy bloody birthday. Dammit.

At last, it seemed as if there was no more to say. Eager to leave as soon as possible, Vimes turned away and made to leave the room.

"Oh, and Commander?"

Slowly, Vimes spun around. "Sir?" This was it. The big one.

"The new Quirmian ambassador is coming tomorrow, as you know. Please don't bring your previous arrangements _with_ you again."

"Yes, sir."

And that was it. Once outside of the Palace, Vimes did a small victory dance, but stopped when he remembered why he was annoyed in the first place. His birthday.

'Happy birthday' – what kind of an idiot phrase was that, anyway? It was just an excuse to eat cake and wrap up crap in coloured paper, then wave goodbye to another year.

He remembered Sybil's birthday and how amazingly pleased she'd been with the mountain of presents she'd been sent. For her, birthdays really were a happy occasion. She actually enjoyed the actual anniversary of her actual birth.

Well, each to his – or her – own. Maybe birthdays could be happy. But in Vimes' experience, they were dull and depressing, and were only made worse by people constantly blathering phrases like 'happy birthday'.

That evening, he'd been hoping for an early night. No such luck. Sybil had got an enormous cake for him, lit with . . . lit with . . .

"Good gods, Sybil, that's surely a health hazard!"

"I know, dear. I've bought Young Sam a special gas mask. Quick, blow them out. Here's a bucket."

And then he opened a surprisingly large pile of presents, most of which were disgusting ties (4), and read Young Sam his story, and went to bed.

Another year of his life past, and gods knew how many more to go. Birthdays are not a cause for celebration, thought Vimes; we should all stay in bed and pretend they don't exist. (This idea can also be applied to anything and everything, but that's just stupid.)

Maybe next year would be better. Actually, the most sensible part of Vimes commented, it'll be worse, 'cause then you'll be f-something plus one.

Oh, shut up, said the other part of him, and went to sleep.

(1) Although next to Vimes, he was practically ecstatic.

(2) It just saves so much time.

(3) Disturbing Jim was a walking Disturbance of The Peace. Seriously. Loitering came naturally to him. Sadly, nothing else did.

(4) In any pile of presents there is always at least one horrible tie. This is an unavoidable fact of the universe that we should all resign ourselves to.


End file.
